Sevilla

I left Cordoba, a quiet town, called the Damascus of the West (and a town at the centre of the "9-11 Mosque" debacle), and took the bus for Sevilla, a very busy city by comparison. Sevilla is the biggest city in southern Spain and is that region's commercial centre. It is also said to be a town which typifies Spanish culture, sort of a display of Spanishness on steroids. Its bullring, along with Ronda's, is considered the most important in Spain, sort of a Montreal Forum of the sport. Its barrios (historic neighbourhoods) are the birthplace of flamenco, that most Spanish of art forms. It also has the most over the top Santa Semana (Holy Week) celebrations, where men with hoods looking eerily close to those of the Ku Klux Klan parade through town with their crosses and candles and statues of the saints. Months after these parades, the ground is still covered with black splotches from their candles. There are literally dozens of parades during Holy Week, the most dramatic of which features several especially devout men carrying a huge float of the Virgin -- get this -- on the back of their necks. The float weighs hundreds of pounds, and they carry it in shifts for the entire day. Sevilla is famous for its parties in the street, its labyrinthine barrios, and its particular brand of folk dance, which I heard being described as plucking an apple from the tree, twisting it off, taking a bite, throwing it to the ground, and stomping on it, all the while snapping your fingers and looking your partner passionately in the eye. "Passion" is a word you hear applied to Sevilla and its residents a lot. It definitely has a very romantic feel to it, despite its size. The character of Don Juan was based in Sevilla, and there is a statue of him to this day. Any resident of Sevilla can quote you the Spanish poetry which, according to the legend, allowed him to seduce a nun.

Originally (no surprises by now) a Moorish city, it was taken at around the same time as Cordoba, and it became a more important port and commercial centre. Its location on the Guadalquivir River, upstream from the Atlantic Ocean, is still navigable by ocean-going vessels. For this reason, it was the port of departure for Columbus' voyage of discovery, and was the chief Spanish port for the discovery of the New World. It was here that the treasure fleet brought back enormous quantities of New World gold and silver, mined or taken from the Aztecs, Mayans, and Incas. You can almost imagine the ships coming back as you stand on the banks of the Guadalquiver. The great piles of lucre that must have come through this port left their mark on Sevilla. It is filled with grand architecture which is very particular to that part of Spain. The King of Spain currently keeps a converted Moorish castle here, letting tourists look at it while he is not there. I did not go to see it, as I was sight-seen out.

I did, however, see what is one of the most prominent sights in the city, the Cathedral of Sevilla. Architecturally, I found the Mezquita of Cordoba to be very interesting, but the Cathedral of Sevilla overwhelms in its sheer volume and grandiosity. In fact, it is the third largest cathedral in the world, after the Vatican and Saint Paul's in London. It had a series of treasure rooms, where the church holds statues, rosaries, and crosses which dazzled the eye with gold, silver, precious woods, ivory, and gems. There were other rooms dedicated to sacred paintings. The cathedral also has the largest alterpiece in the world, which is over-the-top, to say the least. First of all, I would estimate that it was about the area of the small hockey rink, maybe a little smaller, laid on its end. Oh yeah, and it is all gold, as far as the eye can see, with around 50 scenes of the saints. A tad much for me. There is also another, smaller one, made out of silver. They only use that one during Holy Week. I can only imagine what it would be like for a 17th century townsperson to come in and be bowled over by the wealth and power of the church. The bell-tower was interesting. It used to be a square minaret, with a ramp going up to the top, so that the first muezin, who was disabled, could ride it all the way to the top. It was quite a trip up, giving you a magnificent view of Sevilla.

My first job when I got to Sevilla was to find a place to stay, according to the usual pattern. Sevilla is huge compared to the other cities I was in, even just its city core. Also, its streets are more winding and harder to navigate. This made finding a place hard. I overheard these students talking about a hostel, checked it out, and took it. It was the first place I stayed in that was like the hostels that you hear about, with 6 people staying in seperate bunks in each room. It was nice, though, with every person getting their own safe, free internet access, a kitchen, free breakfast, a pool, and lots of social events. I also met some interesting English-speaking people there which was a nice change, and I went around with them for a while. I paid for a tour of the bullfighting ring, as there were no fights on, and that was interesting. The tour-guide was a stereotypically hot-blooded Spanish girl, who started quarrelling with one of the guests, and seemed to be really into the bullfighting scene.

It really is a dangerous sport for all involved: bull, bull-fighter, even occasionally for the fan. While I was there, I saw a picture in a magazine of a bull-fighter getting gored through the mouth by a bull's horn. He lived. On the other hand, just the other week, I saw an article
in the news of a bull in Spain that got into the crowd and injured quite a few people. They are really quite feisty, those bulls. No wonder they go for confession before every fight; they also have two operating theatres on site for every bull fight. I came to have a certain respect for the bullfighters, as they do a dangerous job with a sort of panache. It's kind of like a mix between an art form and a sport, one which runs in families like a trade. Hemingway, who was quite a fan,
called it the only art form where the artist is in danger of death, and in which the degree of brilliance is left to the performer's honor. Walking past the corridors leading to the bull-ring actually got my pulse up, as I imagined what it would be like to walk onto the ring as a matador, knowing either you or the bull were going to die.

I took a walking tour of the city from an Australian guy who lived there, and it was fascinating. The city has quite the history. We went past little courtyards in houses, where it is culturally acceptable to walk into someone's place to look around, as they are quite proud of the way they take care of their gardens. On a sad note, we went to "El Calle Muerte" (the Street of Death), a Jewish ghetto where the inhabitants were savagely killed without warning, during the brutal years of the Spanish Inquisition. Sites relating to the Inquisition are still there to see, as Sevilla was quite prominent in this unfortunate part of history, but I opted not to go see any.

In the evening, a group of us from the hostel went to go see a Flamenco show in one of the most famous barrios in Sevilla, right across the river. On a side note, if you ever listen to the song "Mr. Jones" by Counting Crows, I realize it very well could have been inspired by Sevilla. Flamenco was not what I expected. It's kind of a gypsy thing. There are three components to flamenco. Guitar, voice, and dancing. It's also free-flowing, not being planned ahead. The guitar is highly rhythmical. The voice is not for everyone. One girl I met described it as being like "an Indian rain-making dance". It was definitely very emotive, almost like yelling, with the guy screwing up his face like he was constipated beyond remedy. I was told the lyrics were about bad things happening in love or missing one's home turf, nothing new there. The dancer would occasionally get up and stomp her feet and swing around in time to the music. I thought it was fascinating, but not everyone liked it. The same girl described the dancing as looking like something that one would do at gunpoint.

Regardless, Sevilla was interesting, but in the end, not my favourite, as it was really big and hard to find your way around. I stayed for a couple days, contemplating making a run for Portugal at one point, but ultimately opted against it, as I would not be able to do it justice in roughly 24 hours, and I would exhaust myself in the process. It was in Sevilla that my parasite became fairly apparent. In my last hours in Sevilla, I swung by their free fine arts museum, whizzed through it, and took my bag to the bus station, which was really hard to find, around all the medieval walls of the city, across public squares, and through gardens. I met a lot of nice people at the hostel, and one guy who helped run it told me about a city called Tarifa. It is the southernmost city in Spain, and in Western Europe.

He said that the hostels there were cheap and plentiful. This was on my way home, kind of, and en route to Gibraltar, so I decided to take a bus and wing it when I got there.